July 18th
by TheSarcasticDeath
Summary: Retelling of the Romanov killing Hetalia style. Extremely slight RusChu if you squint and tilt your head sideways. No set pairings WARNINGS: gore, slightly OOC


"You all are going to help me," Belarus said to the gathered countries.

"Right… With what…?" Germany said slowly. Italy nodded his head in agreement and even the perpetually boisterous America had a questioning look on his face.

"Today is July 17th," the she-country stated with conviction.

"Yes, love, we know. Now that we have that established, can we go home now?" asked an irate England. He had been dragged to this 'meeting' in the middle of his cooking, and wasn't sure if the Frenchman who had pulled him away had had the foresight of turning off the stove.

The look on Belarus' face seemed to ask if he was really that stupid.

"Now, now sister," a hapless Ukraine said over the sound of her breasts. "Why don't you just explain what's going on?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, mon cher!" France said excitedly, if not a little nervously. The gleam in the younger sister's eye seemed to scream that she wanted to pull out her knife. Soon.

Sighing, Belarus continued. "Today is the day that big brother's last tsar died." The countries let up collective gasps, most in horror that the main topic was Russia of all people. "And every year on this day he gats really sad, then wanders off somewhere, and when he gets back, he's always covered in blood. I want you all to help me follow him to see where he goes."

The silence was deafening.

Only to be broken by the gathered countries yelling on their mad dash to the door and freedom. This caused Ukraine to burst into tears and run out the door as well, sobbing something about everyone being mean to little Ivan. Thus leaving only Belarus in the room with China and America, both of whom were trampled in the stampede to the exit.

"Wait!" Belarus cried, grabbing China's and America's shirttails in a freakishly strong grip as they turned to leave as well.

"Please, wait…." She said quietly. The two men paused in their attempts to get free and turned to look at the girl, young woman really, who held their clothes in a death hold. Belarus' face was turned towards the floor, and her shoulders were shaking as though she was trying to hold back tears. "Please…." She pleaded as she sank to the ground onto her knees, releasing the other countries.

China and America looked at each other, both more than a little lost. Finally, America smiled slightly before kneeling before the sobbing Belarus.

"Well, come on then. I'll help you out," he said while trying to mop up the tears on her face with his sleeve. Belarus let out an excited squeal and, still somewhat crying, gave the shocked America a hug.

"Thank you!" she said into his jacket. "You don't know what this means to me."

Petting her hair a bit, the blond man turned to China.

"You in?" he asked.

After a moment, the older country smiled with a slight shrug. "Why not. Yes, I'll help."

And any qualms he may have felt were instantly erased by the smile Belarus gave him at his words.

The all found themselves at Russia's house later that day. And Belarus was right about Russia's depression. It seemed to permeate the air around them like fog.

Fortunately, America seemed to realize why they had to remain silent. The three of them were staked out in Belarus' guest room, waiting for the moment Russia left for his yearly trek to somewhere. They had snuck in through the window, so not even the Baltic States were aware of their presences in the house. This was a precaution just in case Russia took it upon himself to interrogate one of them for information on the three countries that would be following him.

Finally, at 11 o'clock exactly, Russia stood up from his depressed slump on the couch, and made his way to the door. He grabbed his jacket, the one he always wore, and donning it, walked out the door.

So the three followed.

Blinking away the snow that fell across their faces, Belarus, China and America stood in awe of the gorgeous monument before them that Russia had just walked into.

"What is it?" asked America.

"It's beautiful…." Sighed China.

"It's the Church on the Blood" said Belarus. "It's built over the death place of the last Tsar and his family."

China and America stood shocked at this information while Belarus marched on towards the door of the Church.

"Hey, wait up!" the brunette exclaimed as the two ran to catch up with the skirted figure.

The three of them then, together, tip-toed into the monument.

"So… Where'd he go?" questioned America. His companions shrugged, looking around themselves at the beauty of the building they were in. They wandered into a large room that was covered in colored marble.

When they heard the resounding noises of Russia's heavy boots on the tiles.

Gasping in shock, the countries dove behind a pillar that was nearby, just as the Russian walked into the room.

What happened next took the trio's breath away.

As soon as the heavy doors were creaked open, the room flooded with light. There was no visible source, America checked. And as the large man walked slowly, with measured steps to the altar, his clothes seemed to melt and reshape into a dress uniform, covered in medals and awards. The closer he got to the altar, people appeared. More and more and more people, dressed in finery, the likes the three hiding in the shadows hadn't seen in nearly a century. But the people just kept arriving, as though the dust itself was combining to create these people form thin air.

As Russia knelt before the altar, his clothes had finished rearranging themselves into the clothes of his past and the last guest to arrive appeared in the room.

Then the sounds of gorgeous music were heard. The notes filled the room entirely, and the people in all their finery lined up near the door. The curious three peeked out to see the what was going on.

The doors opened once more to reveal Tsar Nicolas the second and his wife, dressed in their finest clothing that were practically dripping with jewels. After them came their six children. Then, once the royals of the past had filed into the room, all the memories of times long ago bowed deeply, and the curtsies went down to the floor. And in the middle of it all, standing before the Tsar, bowed Russia.

The Tsar waved his had in a signal for all to stop bowing. Russia retreated to stand before the altar once more. Then Nicolas held out his hand to the Tsarina. And they began to dance, the Tsarina's gown of gold and silver thread swept out in splendid trails, and the Tsar's medals and eyes glinted in a way the three behind the pillar had never seen.

Then more and more couples began to join their royals in the dance, and the music swelled once more to fill the rafters and beyond, like these memories were trying to serenade the heavens and entice the angels to join them in the dance.

Then Russia, too, held out his hand to the youngest, Anastasia, and joined in, the pair circling the Tsars and they were all laughing gaily at their own private jokes.

America had forgotten to breathe, Belarus had to stop herself from crying and joining in the festivities, and China was in shock of how handsome Russia looked when he laughed.

Then, one by one, the dancing people began to fade into dust, just as how they had arrived, as the music slowed and the volume lowered, until it was only the royal family and Russia listening to the fading measures of the piece they had been dancing to. Russia finally let go of the young Anastasia's hand when the Tsars stopped the waltz and stood next to the rest of their family before the altar of marble and gold. Anastasia ran to join them, standing next to her father who pressed a small kiss to the top of her head and held her close with one arm. Tsarina Olga was next to him holding the ill little Alexi, who was smiling brightly at the tall country. And then Maria held Alexandra's arm at her mother's side, while next to Anastasia, Tatiana stood tall holding her sister, Livadia's, hand.

And then at the very final notes of the song that had filled the Church with sound that now one had to almost strain to hear, Russia, the strong, proud Russia that practically nothing could take down, put his right hand over his heart and bowed deep to the family that had run his country for 300 years.

Then silence permeated the air around them. The trio of viewers to this scene thought that in a moment, the royals would fade to nothing like the rest of the people had.

But they were wrong.

All of a sudden, Russia stood in his usual coat and scarf before a family of nobles dressed in regular clothing that looked a little worse for wear but nothing immediately wrong.

Then blood started pouring from a hole in Nicolas' forehead down his shirt and chest, dripping and forming a puddle on the floor. Belarus had to clap a hand over her mouth to contain the cry of shock that had started in her throat. China and America just crouched there in the semi-darkness in horror at what was happening before them. And it was only just beginning.

Tatiana's face seemed to explode in a mass of bone and flesh, but she remained standing. This was followed by little Alexi's head snapping to the side as one half of it burst out in a similar fashion to his sister's. Olga never dropped him, though, even as blood began pooling around her from a wound hidden behind her son's body. Liviada's front seemed to be painted red as she hung on to Tatiana's arm. On Maria's dress two holes appeared and began dripping with the life substance. And the Tsar never let go of Anastasia as more and more stab wounds became apparent on her torso.

And none of their smiles ever left their faces as they faced Russia who drew a sickle in one hand and a hammer in the other.

And none of them even flinched or tried to get away from the country as he first sliced through Nicolas, then smashed at Liviada with the hammer. Nor when he attacked little Alexi still held to his mother's bloody chest. Tatiana stood straight as her sister's hand left hers and Russia slashed at the remnants of her face with the sickle. And even as her husband dropped to the ground next to her, and her one and only son lay dead and limp in her arms, Olga never flinched as the hammer came at her head. Maria never even cried out as her family's blood and flesh mixed with her puddle of blood beneath her feet, even as her head beat the rest of her body to the cool marble flooring. Then stood young Anastasia, surrounded by her dead family.

And as Russia crossed his stained red arms to deliver the final blow with both weapons that were dripping with blood, she smiled even brighter.

"This is your sin, dear Russia," she said in a voice that was clear as a bell. "For choosing them over us. Do you understand, Ivan?"

"Yes," said a deep voice that was so filled with grief and despair that the nations behind the pillar would never have guessed it belonged to the cold and near-emotionless country they knew were it not for the fact that he was the only other being in the blood-stained Church.

"I don't think you do. And I don't think you ever will," the girl continued as Russia began tensing for the blow he was about to deliver. "So you will have to keep killing us every year." The girl took a step closer. "Until the day you join us in hell." Then Russia swung.

After a moment of looking at the bodies that lay before the altar, Russia knelt and bowed his head, before laying the bloodied tools before the head of the last Tsar that he ever had. Then he climbed to his feet, turned, and walked out of the room of marble, gold and blood.

As he passed the hiding place of his sister and her comrades, they saw for the first time how much blood coated his face and hair. The stains of crimson soaked his coat and scarf, and his boots left footprints of vermillion out the door of the Church on the Blood.

He never once looked back.

As the shell shocked trio came out of hiding to exit the building, China turned to the puddle of blood and bones to find it too had vanished into the dust and memories of this memorial of graves. And the boot prints of sticky red were already flaking off the stone floor.

Together, they left that room of ghosts. And together, they faced the outside air that had been hidden behind the doors to a certain nation's hell.

And together the three of them faced the sun that reflected off the grass around the Church.

"Wasn't it snowing?" whispered Alfred, almost as if he was afraid he would break the spell that had been cast over the area.

"No," said Natalia.

"No?" queried Yao.

"It doesn't snow here during July. It hasn't since 1918."

SO... I DONT OWN ANYTHING, AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO THE CHURCH ON THE BLOOD. NOR DO I KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT RUSSIAN WEATHER PATTERNS. I GO T MY INFO ABOUT THE ROMANOVS ON WIKIPEDIA. WHICH I DONT OWN (JUST SAYING). THIS IS BASED (EXTREMELY LOOSELY) ON THAT SCENE IN ANASTASIA WHERE SHE WAS DANCING WITH GHOSTS. WHICH I DONT OWN. CAN WE JUST SAY I DONT OWN ANYTHING?

REVIEW PLZ...


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